A feast for three commenced.
The Ancient One and Bulkathos, lightly clad, strolled through Harrogath's snow.
Poor Jill, bundled like a dumpling, still shivered in the cold.
"Jill, when you become a warrior, you'll march bare-chested with a small axe and broken shield from here to the Elders' Temple for the ancestors' trial!"
"No fierce beasts remain, but for your frail body, that might be enough."
Bulkathos's words sounded exaggerated, his stern face beaming with sincerity, but Jill didn't buy it.
He thought it was an adult's lie to tease him.
"I'll do it! Don't underestimate me!"
To thwart Bulkathos's "evil" plan, Jill vowed loudly!
On Harrogath, countless ancestor spirits roamed, rarely speaking or appearing.
But hearing such a "frail" child boldly answer their chosen Immortal King, curiosity won, and they materialized.
When Jill arrived, every ancestor sensed his weak, near-death-like physique compared to barbarians.
Yet his bold declaration—who wouldn't want to see this brave child?
A amusing misunderstanding, but straightforward barbarians cared little.
"Bulkathos, where'd you find such a spirited kid? Let me test him when the time comes! I beat the Plague King—let him face my trial!"
An ancestor leapt forward, shouting at Bulkathos.
His volume, even for loud-accustomed barbarians, was deafening.
The boom startled Jill, nearly toppling him to roll like a dumpling.
"Madoc! Don't act like beating the Plague King was tough. I chopped the Strangler to bits in a few swings. This fine seedling's wasted on you—should he learn to die alone in some corner for an unclear voice?"
Another ancestor jumped in, vying for Jill's legacy, jabbing at Madoc's sore spot.
"Anvil! You outdated corpse! Your ways are obsolete!"
"Ha! You who lost your glorious weapon—don't you see kids wielding 'Madoc's Sorrow'?"
Other ancestors' interest in Jill waned amid Madoc and Anvil's bickering.
Every soul here had glorious pasts; most were nameless barbarians who found watching Madoc and Anvil's squabble more entertaining.
They largely abandoned vying for this brave heir—the best warrior deserved the best legacy.
Most barbarian ancestors agreed.
Only then did Jill realize Bulkathos's "exaggerated" trial was no joke.
His legs buckled, sliding to the ground, a chill gripping him.
But recalling Bulkathos's battle with Death, a fierce urge stirred—not for others or revenge, but a heartfelt desire for strength.
He didn't seek power but the fearless courage to wield weapons against any foe.
"These souls seem different from ghosts?"
The Ancient One, eyeing the sudden ancestors, asked Bulkathos curiously.
"Harrogath shelters barbarians. Their souls can't be destroyed or leave—except three unique ones."
Bulkathos grinned broadly, answering her.
In the Diablo world, souls weren't indestructible, but Harrogath's ancestors were special.
Their experience and will endured.
"Bulkathos, what about those foolish agents lingering on the mountain?"
An ancestor spoke, visibly annoyed by the intrusive agents.
"What? Can they find anything they shouldn't?"
Bulkathos replied with bored indifference.
"They're getting excessive in their probing."
At that, Bulkathos focused on Harrogath, seeing through the ancestors' eyes to the agents.
…
"Captain! This damn mountain's empty! Days here, and we can't find a path to the summit!"
A heavily clad agent griped to Rumlow, kicking a snow-buried stone.
He'd kicked it countless times since climbing this eerie peak, stuck in a loop.
They left markers, but after circling, they'd return to the same spot—markers gone.
Advancing toward the summit, they never got closer.
High-tech locators showed them fixed in place.
Without bodily fatigue, they'd think it was a dream.
"You saying we should head back?"
Rumlow glared at the questioner, eyes blazing.
Who bore the most pressure these days? Rumlow, the team leader.
This mountain crushed these seasoned agents with failure—a goal in sight but every step futile, maddening.
They'd seen countless supernatural events, but this was unprecedented.
"Go back empty-handed? No danger in days, and you want to quit!?"
Brock Rumlow, Crossbones, a top S.H.I.E.L.D. field operative, wasn't reckless, but his patience was worn to nothing in this endless snow.
"Captain, I mean, should we call HQ for backup?"
The scolded agent shrank, dreading Rumlow's volatile temper.
Harrogath's ground, stained with demon blood, repelled the dishonest.
How could those who can't face themselves be called brave?
(End of Chapter)